


Lightweight

by Yuki119



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, daryl being embarrassed, it'll get there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 21:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17496005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki119/pseuds/Yuki119
Summary: Carol was lying if she said she hadn't thought about it.Post S7 reunion.





	Lightweight

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this at the end of S7 post Daryl/Carol reunion (I'm late I knOW) and decided I was tired of being the only one to read it -__- Please enjoy!

Carol was lying if she said she hadn't thought about it.

 

Daryl stood in front of her, crossbow in hand, muscles flexed holding its weight while he shifted across the hardwood, searching for his supply bag. He always had a tendency to wear cut off shirts and vests, but ever since his abrupt upheaval from Alexandria by the Saviors and his newfound sanctuary in The Kingdom, he was gifted a new wardrobe - Ezekiel opting to give him longer sleeved tees and simple, crisp button downs, as opposed to Daryl’s usual preference; clothes from Ezekiel’s own wardrobe if she had to take a guess. It didn't stop him from aggressively shoving the sleeves up to his elbows, tugging the fabric away to free his hands, the strong muscles of his forearms always on display. Carol recalled asking him once, back at the prison, curious as to why he always preferred ripping his sleeves off his shirts, teasing him about showing off. He rolled his eyes at her remark then shoved the rest of the power bar they split during their watch into his mouth, mulling it over before answering through stale granola. “Dunno, not so much to get snagged on.”

 

“Where the hell’d I put it?” Daryl barked. He continued his pacing back and forth across her cottage, peeking behind antique chairs and furniture. His heavy boots and the popping of the fireplace the only sounds echoing in the small space. He stopped for a visit after a scouting mission for The Kingdom - volunteering, she suspected, to get away from the confined walls and ended up on her front porch for a majority of the afternoon, eating peaches with her that she grabbed from the trees south of her cabin. She paid no attention to the fact his visits were becoming almost as frequent and predictable as Morgan or Ezekiel’s.

 

Carol leaned behind the couch, picking his pack up with one hand, “Missing something?” She smiled, dangling it from the handle, noticing the heft to it. His eyes roved the pack, and he shifted across the room in a few short strides to take it out of her hands, strapping his crossbow to his back in the process.

 

“What's got you in such a tizzy?”

 

“Nearly forgot. Got something for ya,” he grumbled out, heading to her kitchen nook to set the bag down on her rickety dining table, one of the legs short half an inch, rocking when he propped it idly on its surface. She followed him, eyes briefly grazing over the broad expanse of his back, noticing his hair getting long enough to drape across the sweep of his shoulders, before settling beside him.

 

Carol shook her head, a _tsk_ escaping her mouth unintentionally. “I told Morgan and Ezekiel to stop bringing me gifts, and that includes you too. I can take care of myself.”

 

Daryl ignored her and instead busied himself with unzipping the bag, yanking on the snagged zipper. “Hell, woman, I know you can handle yourself. Got tripwires everywhere, even your damn garden.”

 

She leaned into his space a bit, trying to catch his eye, but was given only the briefest of sideways glances. She continued. “Then you of all people should know I don't want anything. I don't _need_ anything.”

 

He pulled out a stack of books from his bag and dropped them on the tabletop, the weight rocking the unstable table once more. He faced her for the first time, the barest hint of an eyebrow raise visible beneath his long sweep of hair. “You sure?”

 

Her mouth fell open, but she had the wherewithal to snap it shut immediately. _Well damn._

 

Daryl gestured to her sidetable that nestled between a wall and couch, draped in a hideous yellow tablecloth and stacked with empty mason jars Carol was in the process of repurposing. A single worn book sat atop them, pages yellow and the soft cover torn. “It's the only one in this place. Probably sick of it by now, yea?”

 

Carol glossed her hands over the books - hard and soft covers, frayed and crisp cut edges. Some pages were yellowed and warped from water, and others looked like they were taken straight from a bookstore before the world went to shit. There were more than a dozen, enough to preoccupy her free time with. _To ignore the silence with._  She shook her head, eyes downturned, eyeing her gift.

 

Daryl watched the shake of her head and leaned back away from her, grabbing the strap of his crossbow that wrapped across his chest to busy his hands, fiddling with the leather. “I mean, I ain't gotta leave ’em. I just thought-”

 

She grabbed his arm, stopping his retreat, squeezing his forearm to let him know it was fine. The muscle beneath her hand tensed. “They're wonderful.”

 

Daryl stood, wide-eyed as he skimmed across her features - at her clear eyes and soft smile - before ducking his head toward his shoulder, hair draping his vision. “No big deal. They were takin’ up space anyway.”

 

“Although,” Carol started, pulling him out of his reverie, “I never knew you had such good taste.” She held up a small softcover book adorned in red, turning the cover toward him - one with a golden man on a white stallion, hair blowing effortlessly in the wind. “I’ll let you borrow it sometime.”

 

The color of his ears tinged pink and his eyes looked anywhere but at her amused smirk. “Ah, shut up,” Daryl grumbled, shoving Carol briefly in the arm, her laugh echoing across the small room.

 

He left shortly after, heading back to the haven of The Kingdom, bag strapped to his back and crossbow in hand. She sat on the porch, watching his wide shoulders sway into the horizon until he disappeared into the dim light of the evening.

 

Carol still clutched the book in her hand, sitting and staring at the cheesy romance cover and flipping through the dulled pages until the bites of mosquitoes forced her inside for the night.

 

***

 

The next time he arrived, he was reckless.

 

“What in the hell, Daryl?” she exclaimed, shocked when he showed up at her front door, blood dripping down and soaking into the planks of the porch.

 

He hovered in the doorway, calm except for the barest hint of a grimace on the edges of his lips - his hands clutching at a large gash on his forearm. He made no move to go past her, waiting for her permission. “Do I gotta take my shoes off first?”  

 

Carol shook off the shock and ushered him in, forcing him to sit on the edge of the kitchen table so she could get a good look - she had taken to tucking a coaster under the broken leg that effectively solved their rocky table situation. She shoved a chair under his feet so he could steady himself and he leaned forward onto his knees for comfort, cradling his injured arm gently.

 

Carol grabbed her medical supplies and arranged them on the countertop - gauze, salve, bandaids, alcohol, and a myriad of other supplies. A handful she scavenged, though most were gifted to her by Ezekiel and his charge, Jerry.

 

“A house warming gift,” Ezekiel had decreed, raising his arms wide as if addressing a crowd, stately smile lined from ear to ear. She had to admit, he pulled off the whole flair for the dramatic well. He had shown up, knocked on her door, and effectively shoved a wicker basket full of medical supplies into her hands before she could properly assess what was going on.

 

“I've already received three housewarming gifts,” Carol argued, trying her best to shove the basket of supplies back in his hands, which proved impossible. “The house is as warm as it's gonna be.”

 

That's when Jerry made his presence known, appearing out from behind Ezekiel’s frame, all wide-smile and warm eyes. “Those gifts were from the King. Morgan and Benjamin as well.” He jerked his thumb to point at himself. “But this one is from me,” he winked, happy and heartfelt, nodding for her to take them, large figure coming up next to her like a protective wall. It really was a no-brainer as to why Ezekiel chose Jerry as his right-hand man. He was disarming, but imposing in character - Carol didn’t miss how Jerry carried a battle ax around, loose and light in his hand as if it were nothing more than a plastic toy. She definitely didn’t miss how standing next to him made her feel immediately safe.

 

Carol paused, cutting her thoughts off short as she took in Jerry’s carefree grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile, and turned on her heel, grasping the basket close to her chest. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, and slammed the door.

 

Now, months later she was silently thanking Jerry’s persistence as she scrounged through the packed basket, finding a loaded supply of alcohol and gauze. Taking another glance at Daryl’s wound, she grabbed her needle and thread as well.

 

Daryl was silent as Carol picked up his forearm, gingerly turning it in her hands, taking to gently cleaning the gash. His skin prickled with goosebumps, chilled with the cool touch of her hands on his blazing skin, the area around his wound unbearably hot. She hovered over him, comfortable in the silence and focused on the task at hand, while hooded eyes scanned her face - focused on the wisps of her hair flipping into her pale eyes. When she spared a glimpse at him, he froze, unable to look away, caught like an animal in a trap. And then she steeled him with a sharp eyebrow that said _explain yourself,_  and he didn't hesitate.

 

“Nicked myself on some glass at that old gas station down the road.” Daryl paused, then clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Got tied up inside by some walkers and had to climb out through the bathroom window.”

 

He peeked at her from behind his hair, waiting for the look of disappointment or the scalding lithe in her voice. The _“you should have known better_ ” look. Instead she huffed out a laugh, high and clear like a church bell on a Sunday morning. “You? Through a bathroom window?”

 

“Yea,” he gruffed, exhaling a chuckle at her amusement, watching as her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Small as hell those things are.”

 

“Gas station bathroom,” she mulled, finishing cleaning the gash of blood with the clean rags. “You're lucky we're not having to amputate.”

 

“If I landed any worse, I could have saved you the trouble. Felt like I hacked my own arm off.”

 

Suddenly, he recoiled, eyes wide as he sucked in a sharp breath, clenching his free hand in the loose fabric of his jeans. Carol shook the bottle of alcohol in front of him, “If you hadn't landed in dirty glass this wouldn't be happening.” She doused the rest of his wound with it, steadying his arm from moving, holding it tight in her hands. He took in a deep breath, bracing himself for the sting of the alcohol to subside, determined not to shift in his seat any longer. He'd had worse, but the inevitable sting of the disinfecting liquid always sent a jolt straight up his spine.

 

“Shoulda went back to The Kingdom, away from this torture chamber.”

 

She readied her stitching needle and thread, pausing for just a moment, sparing a glance into his blue eyes, “Why didn't you?”

 

Daryl paused, the tension in his body loosening as he leaned back just enough to see the sincerity in her face. He shrugged, noncommittally, pulling into the curtain of his hair. “Dunno.”

 

Carol pursed her lips, watching as he leaned back a bit to get more comfortable before she set to work. “Just a sec,” she started, disappearing into the backroom for the briefest of moments before reappearing with a faceted bottle that contained a rich amber liquid.

 

Whiskey.

 

She pushed the alcohol into his freehand. “For the torture.” She steadied her needle again, turning his arm over once more before she started. It was a clean cut. Not as deep as she originally thought and only requiring a steady seam of stitches and a patch of gauze. Knowing Daryl, he’d be out and about by nightfall as if nothing happened. “They would have made you stay, wouldn't they? Had you on bed rest and wall duty until your arm healed.”

 

“Yea, that's part of the reason, I guess.” He uncapped the offered bottle, and immediately downed a mouthful, his face only briefly contorting with the bitter taste, sighing when the warm liquid slid down his throat, his head tilted back to relish the taste. “They damn sure don't offer this kind of bedside service at The Kingdom.” He tipped the bottle to her in cheers, as she steadied the needle and began to stitch him up. He didn’t move. He promised himself. He had plenty of injuries in the past that required stitches. A flashback to Hershel’s farm and Andrea shooting him in the head immediately came to mind. Hell, he even patched up a few minor nicks himself. But he found it almost impossible not to shift around with Carol’s steady hand gripping his arm, firm and confident, her warm presence wrapping around him in comfort.

 

He took another long swig of whiskey.

 

Carol stood over him, busy with her needle, sparing him a look every time he'd bring the bottle of whiskey to his lips - the only shift to his otherwise still frame. The crickets began to chirp, signaling the hazy dusk of the sun low in the sky as she finished the last knot of her thread. She finished by wrapping it with a clean strip of gauze - stark white against his ruddy skin and a blinding contrast to the dirt and sweat that marred over the rest of him.

 

“All done,” Carol started, gently patting his injured arm. “Almost good as new.”

 

He held his arm out, scrutinizing, until he relaxed and rolled his shoulders in a stretch, nodding at her. “Thanks.” He punctuated his point by tipping his bottle of whiskey to her in cheers and taking one last swig, before handing it over to her to drink.

 

“Thanks, but I don’t really have a taste for it.”

 

“Have the drink or not, just keep it away from me. I don't plan on fighting walkers wasted.” He pushed it into her hands and she grasped it, the light weight of the bottle cool in her hands - much cooler than Daryl’s skin had been.

 

Carol chuckled as she watched him stumble over to the couch and sink down into the cushions, body slouched so far down he was almost level with the arms. She took a quick smell of the alcohol in her hands and turned her nose at the bitter smell, before leaving it on the table to be forgotten. She hadn't drank much since the world went to hell - only the occasional chug to fight the stings of injuries when she could find one. When the day to day required full alertness to survive, she learned to chuck a few habits, even in the beginning when all she wanted to do was grab a bottle and make herself forget all the shitty things in the world for a few brief moments.

 

Carol flopped on the couch beside him, grabbing one of her books on the way down, before similarly settling into the dusky cushions. She brought the book open in front of her, and set about reading, content in the silence; content that everything and everyone was okay. Moments of peace never seemed to last long, and she was hellbent on enjoying this one.

 

Daryl looked at her, eyes trained like a hawk on her movements, watching through the curtain of his hair. He watched her read, noticed her eyes skim a page quickly before diving into it and settling into a slow, languid pace to soak in every word. He also noticed she was prone to the romance novels he brought - this particular cover one of a rugged man embracing a petite woman among a cacophony of roses - hues of pinks and greens swirling in some semblance of a pattern along the spine of the book. It was stark in comparison to everything he knew of her - the muted neutrals of her outfits, the hard line of her mouth when she was deep in thought, the knowing look she gave him when they were thrown victories and tragedies and everything in between. In the harsh reality of this new world, the single book Carol held in her hand was the oddity.

 

He huffed out a soft laugh.

 

Carol raised an eyebrow, curious. Her book lowered away from her face, casting a dark shadow over her nose and lips, the soft glow of the fireplace illuminating her eyes like a beacon. They drew over his slouched figure, trying to find the source that caused the laughter, before the barest hint of a smile graced her lips. “You drunk?” she asked, mocking, assuming his laugh was stirred from the amber liquid he downed, and not from a contradiction he was suddenly confronted with.

 

Daryl waved her off. “Nah,” he said, tilting his head into the softness of the couch. If this were before the world fell apart, he might say this was the hardest damn couch he had ever sat on, but post world going to shit it was one of the softest things he had ever touched. He focused on the warm feeling feathering throughout his body, settling in his hands and feet and at the nape of his neck. “Maybe a bit buzzed. S’been awhile since I had a good drink.”

 

She sat her book down on her lap, hands busying with the frayed threads at the edge of the couch cushions. She mulled it over, “I don’t think I’ve had anything decent since Jenner gave us that wine at the CDC.”

 

Daryl whistled, short and sharp, a sound that cut through the evening chirps of the birds, “Damn, woman, it’s been that long? You’re a goddamn saint.”

 

She pursed her lips in an attempt to refrain from rolling her eyes, “Far from it, actually.” She picked at the exposed threads of the cushions more, restless, exposed in a simple sentence. Daryl was quiet. If it wasn’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest and the warm smell of alcohol on his breath, she wouldn’t even have known he was sat next to her. When Carol looked up, his eyes were steady on her, the shy aversion of eye contact he always had suddenly gone.

 

“Who isn’t?” Was all he said, low and dusky, conveying a steady wave of confidence and shared experience, and it was enough to steady her shaking hands and pull her out of that brief moment of self-pity.

 

He jumped up suddenly and stomped across to the kitchen before flopping back on the couch, body loose and relaxed, a knee up on the cushions and an arm slung over the back angled towards her. “Here.”

 

The half empty whiskey bottle was shoved into her hands once more. She set him with a steel glare, “Daryl, I’m not-”

 

“Just take a damn drink.”

 

She shook her head, “Both of us can’t be drunk.”

 

Daryl leaned in only to tip the drink in her hands towards her mouth, “I ain’t, but you get drunk on one swig there’s no hope for us anyways.” He popped the bottom of the bottle once more, the glass clinking off a bump from his fingernails. The sound sharp against the quiet of the room.

 

Carol’s mouth was poised to refuse. To tell Daryl he should know better and to think smarter. That at least one of them needed to be prepared for a worst case scenario - an attack, a herd, a random group of strangers - but all notions of refusal fell off her tongue as she watched him tip the glass up towards her face once more, his eyes unusually steady for someone who prefered to make eye contact through his grungy hair. He was dirty and grimy and the harsh realities of the world were present in his appearance - the marred clothes, the matted hair, the scars that grazed over his features. But as he sat there, trying to contain one of those rare shit-eating grins, he was the picture of youth and mischief.

 

She took a harsh chug before he could finish saying, “Drink girl.”

 

It was pleasant and hot down her throat and she tipped her head back, a sigh escaping her mouth, as she felt the warmth travel down. The lovely heat feathered out to her fingers and toes and she knew if she continued, it wouldn’t be long until she felt the steady buzz tingling up her spine. Her tolerance had lowered considerably, and the sheer relaxation she felt from one big swallow was proof.

 

“Not bad for a lightweight. Not even a grimace,” Daryl graveled out, his head dipped at an angle as he leaned back, settling into the corner of the couch. His eyes bounced around her face, from her cheeks to her mouth, and back around to her eyes. “That a flush I already see comin’ in?”

 

Carol took one more big swallow, before shoving the rest back in his hands. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, “Alcohol makes you mouthy.”

 

Daryl took it without consequence, immediately tossing the nearly empty bottle over on the side table. He shrugged, kicking his feet up on the old coffee table, arms crossed over his chest as if poised to go to sleep, “Ain’t good if it doesn’t.”

 

The light in the room shifted, the fire casting deeper shadows across Daryl’s face and for the first time Carol noticed it was dark out. The birds had stopped chirping and made way for the high buzzing of the cicadas. “Ezekiel will be wondering where you are.”

 

Daryl nodded, “He knows I’ll be back. Rick’s orders.”  

 

Carol watched as Daryl made no attempt to move, still poised in comfort on the opposite end of her couch. “Does Rick know you’re leaving The Kingdom on scouting missions?”

 

Daryl cut her a look, one that said he didn’t need permission and also said _no, no Rick doesn’t_. “I told him I’d stay in The Kingdom and I have. Ezekiel ain’t got nobody that can go outside the walls by themselves and I’m not staying cooped up there in fantasyland.”

 

It was no question that Daryl was restless. When Daryl first showed up on her doorstep, tears brimming his eyes as he asked why she left, it was all she could do not to curse him for storming back up into her life, but as she hugged him all she felt was relief in knowing he was okay. He told her all about the Saviors and Alexandria. Mentioned Glenn and Abraham had been caught in the crossfire. How Rick made a deal with Negan. Rick had been quick to order Daryl to stay low in The Kingdom until he came up with a plan to deal with the Saviors. But it had been months, with barely a word to spare except for the occasional message from Ezekiel or Morgan. Negan had followed through on his deal, and with no outbursts on Rick’s part, it looked like not only Alexandria, but Hilltop and The Kingdom were both thriving. But Carol knew, looking at Daryl tap his fingers restlessly against his biceps, he was ready for action, ready for things to go back the way they were - as much as they could.

 

“Do you want to stay here?” Carol cocked her head to the side, the warmth of the alcohol finally settling into her limbs and up her spine.

 

Daryl blinked, fingers stopping their restless tapping on his arms.

 

“Just for tonight. You don’t need to be wandering around at night with your arm.”

 

For the first time since Carol stitched him up did he really notice his injury. He glanced at the white strip of gauze, and then back into her blue eyes, watching them run across his features, glancing across his cheekbones and his chest and back up again. The sounds of the cicadas buzzed loud in his ears and his body suddenly warmed like he had just downed the rest of the whiskey in the bottle, even though it lay tossed over on a forgotten table.

 

Her hands were on his cheeks suddenly, cupping his face in them. She huffed, tounge rolling, mocking. “You're the one getting a flush. Lightweight.”

 

She stood quickly, tossing the book aside as she stared him down, looking at his languid form stretched out, boots propped on the salvaged coffee table. “I'm going to bed - I'd offer you the other side but it's a twin.” His eyes darted anywhere but at her, but she continued despite. “Blanket is on the back of the couch. Let me know when you leave in the morning.” Upon his silence, she hit him on the leg.

 

“Yea, yea,” he waved, hand flippant but tone serious. “I'll let ya know.”

 

Her feet swiveled to leave rounding the doorway to her bedroom, a small nook in the back corner of the house. Her head peaked out from around the doorjamb. “Don't open the door for strangers.” She chuckled at the roll of his eyes, and disappeared into the recesses of her room.

 

Daryl settled back into the couch cushions, heart thrumming in his chest - _must be the alcohol_ \- and attempted to kick off his boots, giving up after a third failed attempt. He sank into the rough fabric of the cushions, skin warm, content on getting a restful sleep for once, the quiet hum of grasshoppers and trees swaying more of a comfort than the pitter patter of The Kingdom.

 

If he tossed and turned to the word “lightweight” dripping off Carol's tongue throughout the night it was neither here nor there.


End file.
